He nodded. “You are,” he said. “You really are.”
Paige volunteered at the fund’s outreach events. She didn’t make it about herself. She worked quietly, handing out materials, listening to women who’d been diagnosed, learning what humility felt like when it wasn’t forced but chosen.
One day, after an event, Paige stayed behind while people left.
She stood on my porch, staring at the ocean, arms wrapped around herself like she was cold.
“Do you ever forgive her?” she asked suddenly.
I didn’t have to ask who she meant.
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Forgiveness isn’t the goal for me.”
Paige looked at me. “Then what is?”
I watched a wave curl and collapse, the water smoothing itself out again.
“Freedom,” I said. “Freedom from what she did. Freedom from letting it define me.”
Paige nodded slowly, as if she was trying to learn that, too.
The next year, my father’s health improved. Not because life became easy, but because he wasn’t living under constant emotional tension. He started walking along the Battery in the mornings. He joined a support group for people recovering from financial exploitation.